Let us now put to rest the question of online vegetable search popularity.  

As we can see, asparagus has a normalized rating of 53. 

Look at artichoke, which has a normalized rating of 57.

None of them, however, match the inimitable hotness of broccoli, which has a normalized rating of 72.

When I found this information I felt like I was peeking behind the control panel of the universe. The word "normalized," spiced with the authority of scientific vernacular, only seemed to confirm the validity of the data. How interesting, I thought, to know which vegetable arouses the most worldwide curiosity. But then I realized I'd only found another flimsy way to waste time online. If I had any sense at all, I'd throw my computer into the nearest volcano. Which, thankfully, I can find here.

The guitar is a kitchen safety device. The Elephant and Butter discovered this whilst slicing into a nub of pecorino romano last night. The knife unexpectedly jumped out of the cheese and went straight for the pad of my index finger. Luckily, the pad is calloused from much hackneyed guitar playing, and repelled the invading blade. I must remember to begin playing guitar with more parts of my body so I can develop a full protective coating -- a force field of calluses.  Only then will I be safe from myself.

A few years ago I wrote a letter to a fortune cookie factory in Long Island City hoping to persuade them to hire me as a fortune writer. If there is any fitting venue for my assertions and philosophies, it is certainly a small piece of paper tucked into a stale cookie. I'm also fairly certain I can pick losing lotto number combinations as well as anyone alive. The factory, though, apparently wasn't convinced by my cosmology, and never contacted me. Here was my query letter, which I recently came across:

To Whom It May Concern,

I have just finished reading the article in the most recent New Yorker magazine about Mr. Donald Lau's life as a fortune cookie fortune writer, which I enjoyed very much. I was also quite intrigued that the article mentioned you will soon advertise for a new fortune writer. As it happens, I am a writer, and I would be honored if you would consider me for the job … [I am sparing you, dear reader, a lengthy section in which I explained how I once ordered 100 fortune cookies with my name and phone number on the fortune, one of which I threw into the open car window of a young woman at a stoplight in a clumsy and, no surprise, unsuccessful attempt at wooing.] 

I realize that having a deep appreciation of fortune cookies does not necessarily qualify someone for the job, so I am also including, below, ten sample fortunes. Please be aware that these fortunes were not pre-figured. Rather, I wrote them all solely for the purpose of this letter in less than a half hour. Writing on demand, I understand, will be important for the job.

SAMPLE FORTUNES:

"Technology will improve your life. Sort of."
"You will not encounter a talking dog."
"Your hair will be worried by a gust of wind, briefly."
"Soon, you will be winked at."
"Three rights is like making a left one block ago."
"The less your phone rings, the more important the ring."
"Throw a surprise party for your problems."
"The more you dance, the less you sit."
"Beware of fringe benefits that fray."
"You are a reality show worth watching."

I assure you, many more fortunes are at my fingertips. Please let me know if you would like to see my resume, or would like to speak further about the position. I very much look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

B.B.

What might have been, dear reader, what might have been. 

Small rooms discipline the mind, large ones weaken it. Said DaVinci. And it is with limitations of this sort in mind that I post a photograph taken with my greatly pathetic camera phone machine. Even the depicted coffee is a reduction, the tiniest iteration of coffee possible, but don't be fooled by the power of a single image. The truth is, lately I am drinking the coffee equivalent of a whole series of small rooms, and as a result my mind is anything but disciplined. Thesis statement: coffee is the symbolic domain in which I negotiate between passion and boundaries. There probably isn't much reason to essay further; we all know how this works. I adore a good crema. I want to feel the quickening. I tank up on sugar. I am impressed with the prospects of the day. I chat with strangers. And though I go to the cafe to write, hardly anything gets written. I leave the cafe with a blur upon my brain. A couple hours later, ever the optimist and slow the learner, I get another coffee. 

This sounds like a dilemma because I'm presenting it as such. But maybe it's not. Maybe the crema is as worthy as the writing. Whatever the answer, my best writing for the day consisted of a very short note sent along with a payment for a parking ticket: "You got me this time, adversary." Meaning, of course, that there will be other times more in my favor. Come soon, times.

 

A Swedish Fish from the charming and sometimes aquamarine-wearing artist Ali Osborn, seen here. Excellent show. Also of culinary note were industrial landscapes painted on cereal boxes, by Raffy Griswold.

Nearly three years have passed since my inaugural post. Before that evening I hadn't really considered writing a blog. But when I came home to a dinner shared by my roommate Jeremy and his girlfriend Sarah, I was compelled. For two years Jeremy and I lived on the third floor of a massive, old brick building with a porch over-looking our town. Hardwood floors. Silver radiators. Mock pressed-tin ceilings. We staged a play in our kitchen after Jeremy noticed one night that our dimmer switch allowed us to fade up lights just like they do at the theater. So he wrote a play, 'The Porch Accord,' and built some stadium seating. I acted and made lino-cut programs. 

We cooked a lot in that apartment. We staged a reading of the pilot episode of 'The Golden Girls.' We wrote. We tended to our community garden plot. Toward the end of our time in the building, Sarah moved in, and I was extremely impressed with her wit and gorgonzola-sage sauce, enough to start up a blog I had never intended to start. Almost three years later, Jeremy and Sarah have announced they're getting married. And guess who'll officiate? Yup, me -- the ordained (online, a bunch of years ago, I think I lost the paper) Reverend Elephant and Butter. My idea for an entirely silent, gesture-based wedding doesn't seem to have popular support, but I'm sure we'll figure something out. In the meantime, here's to two lovely connoisseurs of the insane pageantry of being.

I have lost sensation in the left side of my lower lip. I mean my left, not yours. Stage lip left. And I suppose it will require some rewinding to explain.

This weekend, The Elephant and Butter somehow entered an alternate reality in which babies were everywhere, and they were all named Toby. There was one on Saturday: Toby. And another on Sunday: Toby. See what I mean? The first Toby is about four months old, and a real charmer. A top-of-the-line Toby. This dude has devised at least 50 innovative ways of smiling. The second Toby, only a couple of weeks old, was a great Toby, too. He slept in my arms for a long time, every once in a while moving his hands as though in a supernatural mime performance. You gotta love this milieu of Tobys, you really do.

But back to my bum lip. Prior to meeting the second Toby, I threw together some macaroni and cheese to help sustain the new parents. I used an Alice Waters recipe, starting with a roux, then veered off the path by adding some pimentón dulce and a small amount of cumin, and veered back onto the path by adding milk and cheddar. Meanwhile, I toasted bread crumbs in butter and boiled some cavatappi, which is basically a double-elbowed pasta. Which, I soon found, is basically just a diabolical, face-wrecking water cannon. Ten minutes into the boiling of the noodles I tested one, holding it above the pot so it would release its boiling liquid. But as I transferred the noodle to my mouth it expelled from its depths a hidden reserve of scalding water that leapt onto my lip. I cussed. I went to a mirror. I saw a small layer of lip shrivel back to reveal an even redder version of my lip. I cussed again. And now, from my lateral incisor to my cuspid -- that entire two millimeter stretch -- I'm numb. And that's the story of my victim lip. 

Beware the cavatappi. It's hell on the kisser.

Update: the lip has grown more mangled and reddened. Pasta is a better pugilist than I. Definitely getting some strange looks from people on the boulevard. A small child recoiled. 

The Elephant and Butter is about to discover the fortuitous intersection of culinary splendor and puerile sex jokes. It seems that a friend has lost a bet that requires her to cook an eight-course meal for the winners. The bet: can two young men with dirty minds make it through an entire month without uttering a "that's what she said" double entendre? Amazingly, they can and did. Now, a group of us shall benefit from their laudable restraint. 

As for the loser, if you are reading this, please know that I plan to ease the sting of your defeat by bringing a mix CD of unrestrained moddish vigor.

Here in the quickening chute of autumn, The Elephant and Butter cannot put together paragraphs, so sentences will have to suffice.

Two poets came to visit this weekend, instigating grandiose love and a production line of challah. 

The recipe, famous to us all because it belongs to a wonderful poet friend, calls for 5 lbs. of flour, so I made it with 5 lbs. of flour -- the abundance is sacrosanct, and couldn't be reduced. 

The bearded poet explained to me that challah is technically the name of the small bit of dough taken from the loaf and sacrificed, not the name of the bread, so we took off a small bit of dough and threw it out the window.

There was a great proliferation of bread in the kitchen.

And risotto.

Later, the bearded poet and I took a walking tour of the alleys and other interstitial parts of my town, during which we stared directly into the sun for long periods of time and laughed about it wildly.

The next morning I became the Jorge Luis Borges of chefs by hiding the leftover risotto meal inside a frittata, which we all quickly hid inside our stomachs, the fact of which I am now hiding right here on this blog.